


Asaaranda

by greygerbil



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, forbidden relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 07:57:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20832041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greygerbil/pseuds/greygerbil
Summary: For many years, the celebrated Ben-Hassrath Beres-taar and his lover Kost, a well-regarded Saarebas, have been steadfast in their clandestine love for each other as well as their belief in the Qun. However, few secrets can be kept indefinitely.





	Asaaranda

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DragonRider1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonRider1/gifts).

“I admit, I wondered if you were making up stories in your letters about the attack on Alam, but we have gotten corroborating reports from your comrades in Seheron. I have never known someone to bring their entire squad through such an assault by the Fog Warriors and take prisoners on top of it.”

Beres-taar looked at his superior Vahees, face blank. He knew it had been an extraordinary incident and saw no reason to understate his success nor boast about it.

“I have been stationed in Seheron for over fifteen years now,” he pointed out by way of explanation. “I know what they are capable of. When I got the tip that they would be on the way, I prepared for a difficult battle.”

“Yes, fifteen years and with such short breaks.” Vahees paused, lowering Beres-taar’s letter onto his desk. “I know you only returned to turn in your full report, but if you would like to speak to the re-educators to revisit your education, I doubt you would be fed qamek. They understand the pressure of Seheron.”

“That won’t be necessary. My faith in the Qun is as it always was. I’d hate to waste their time.”

The quick nod Vahees gave told him that he was not under any undue suspicion. He could not fault Vahees for his offer, knowing how long the man had handled agents in Seheron. It was the kind of place that could drive even Ben-Hassrath who seemed unshakeable as the mountains themselves to their breaking point.

“What about the Tamassrans? You must wish to visit them, at least,” Vahees added with an amused undertone.

Beres-taar smiled briefly at the implication to acknowledge he understood.

“No need. I would rather just go to see a few friends while I am here.”

“Then go. You have certainly earned that, Ben-Hassrath.”

The sun slanted golden over the great domed buildings that rose out of the jungle which always seemed to encroach upon the giant buildings of Qunandar. A thick vine hung low enough to glance against Beres-taar’s black horns and over his short dark hair as he walked out of the door. He brushed thick, fleshy leaves out of the way as he descended down broad steps onto the street.

The Tamassran who had raised Beres-taar used to compare the invasive force of nature that was ever attempting to swallow Qunandar back up into the chaos of the jungle to the doubt that beset the minds of those of the Qun in hostile territory. But just as the inhabitants of Qunandar had not let themselves be intimidated by nature and ever drove it back to the city walls, so a follower of the Qun had to keep his mind free of corrupting influences.

Beres-taar had not lied to Vahees when he told him he needed neither re-educators nor Tamassran. Someone else held the blade that relentlessly cut back the wilderness trying to ensnare his mind.

“Beres-taar!”

The voice called over to him from across the street. Beres-taar turned to see Dahen, who dodged a group of beresaad to join up with him. Thin and bony for one of their folk, nimble like a bird, he moved easily in the press of bodies that always slowed a bigger man like Beres-taar and was one of the reasons he did not favour cities.

“I have heard of your return,” Dahen said, smiling broadly. “From the way people tell it, it’s a surprise you’re not dragging bound Bas with you in a triumphant march.”

“I didn’t want to spend a boat ride from Seheron to Qunandar with a bunch of squabbling outsiders,” Beres-taar answered dryly.

Dahen laughed. He was a friend from earliest youth, a Ben-Hassrath of the local enforcement, and Beres-taar was always happy to see him; but he knew that with the waning daylight, his chance to visit the person he had been itching to meet since he stepped off the ship dwindled away.

“I am still busy now, but tomorrow I should have time. Do you want to meet up?” he asked Dahen.

“Always.” He raised a brow. “Are you visiting the Saarebas again?”

“Yes. You know of Kost,” Beres-taar said simply. “You should meet him sometime, too.”

“I know you respect him. Still, I find them quite unsettling, the whole lot. The Arvaarad have a job I would not wish on an enemy.”

“And the Saarebas have a worse one,” Beres-taar answered. “I can only marvel at those whose minds resist the temptations of demons every day.”

Though many admired him for his prolonged work in Seheron and wondered at his strength and endurance, he had never considered it very special. The nickname he had earned for himself was Beres-taar, shield, and a shield did not do much good facing away from the enemy. Seheron was the place the Qun needed him to be, it was where he defended the borders of their territory. However, he doubted he could have been as strong as Kost had to be every hour of his life. It was from him that Beres-taar had learned all his greatest lesson in control and how to give his trust to the greater knowledge of the Qun, and to him he returned when he felt himself tire.

“_If_ they resist it,” Dahen cautioned. “Be careful, Beres-tar. They are not called dangerous for nothing.”

“You think I don’t know that? You realise we fight Tevinter in Seheron, don’t you?”

“I had almost forgotten!”

Nevertheless, Dahen stopped as Beres-taar turned to the broad road that would lead him outside of Qunandar proper towards the barracks of the Saarebas.

“I will see you later, then?”

“Gladly,” Beres-taar said honestly and meant it. He looked forward to talking to his friend, but he was also a little relieved that he had not taken him up on his suggestion of visiting the mages with him. If there had been any real danger of his accepting, in fact, Beres-taar might not have mentioned it.

The barracks of the Saarebas and their keepers laid at the edge of the city, away from the press of the great buildings with dozen entrances and hundreds of windows that housed qunari in the same numbers as beehives. People were not supposed to be subjected to the mages more than necessary.

The guard at the front door recognised him on sight. Beres-taar could pass with a friendly word through the entrance these days. It had not always been so easy, but he had proven himself a respectful visitor over the years who heeded the commands of the Arvaarad. With quick steps, he passed through a hallway lit only by torches and stopped at the last door.

Outside of the barracks, a Saarebas could not be released from the leash that connected their karataam, but in the rooms that laid behind these doors they were allowed to roam free within the company of their guards and fellow members to some extent, provided they had earned their keepers’ trust. The karataams were separated, of course, into quarters of six or seven rooms, and outsiders were only allowed in sometimes so the risk of corruption remained low. Beres-taar hit the thick wood of the door with his fist.

-

Teron-te had been the head Arvaarad of Kost’s karataam for almost a decade and they made light conversation as he led Beres-taar through the entrance hall of the quarters. News of Beres-taar’s success had found their way here, too, and he was congratulated once more.

“Kost is still instructing our newcomer. You may speak in private in a back room when he is finished,” Teron-te added.

Beres-taar nodded his head, gaze already straying to where Kost stood. A tender sort of ache gripped his heart as he finally laid eyes on him after so many months. Kost was not especially tall for a man of their kind and that his horns curled at the sides of his head and backwards instead of standing up added to that impression, but he held himself with such quiet confidence and poise that Beres-taar always felt like he was looking up at him. The fact that his lips were sown shut and his shoulders and hands weighed down by massive iron shackles did not seem to impact him one bit. The burden placed on the Saarabas sat like ornaments on someone whose spirit kept him strong against the assaults of the demon world.

Though a golden mask covered the upper half of his face, Beres-taar saw that Kost’s dark eyes, the same copper colour as his skin, had flicked briefly towards him.

His name meant ‘peace’. It was what he brought to those around him. In Kost’s karataam, no one had fallen to temptation in years, even though by now they placed troublesome Sarebaas on the edge of failure here on purpose so they could be under Kost’s lead. Teron-te was an Arvaarad of great steadfastness, but anyone who knew of the inner workings of the karataam understood that Kost was the pillar on which the other mages leaned.

Kost took his time with the young woman he spoke to and Beres-taar watched without impatience. He could have simply looked at Kost all day and gained more happiness from this than being with any Tamassran.

“Remember: ‘Struggle is an illusion. The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. There is nothing to struggle against. Victory is in the Qun.’”

Beres-taar felt himself nodding along to the well-known words that finished Kost’s speech. They were both men of great belief, him and Kost, but he never felt the truth of the Qun deeper than when Kost was citing from it. As one who had been dealt such a difficult hand, holding fast was hard for him, and yet he had never wavered. How could he not have been an inspiration to Beres-taar?

The woman, who had dark circles under her eyes and moved sluggishly, lowered her head to Kost before she stepped back. Hands clasped before his body over the heavy chains that bound them at the wrists, Kost gave Beres-taar a glance and smile, then turned to leave the room. Beres-taar followed wordlessly, pulling the door shut behind him. Some years ago, that act would have been impossible, but now that he had risen in the ranks of the Ben-Hassrath, it was expected that the things he might discuss were of such importance and gravity that other Saarebas would not be able to handle them. They needed not to know of the disquieting realities of Seheron that might trigger fears which in turn could invite demons.

He relished the fact, for before that, he had never gotten to kiss Kost as he did now, though his affection had been steady and faithful for twenty years, ever since Beres-taar had first met Kost when his unit of young upstart Ben-Hassrath had been brought to meet the Saarebas so they could learn of the horrors of the world. They had struck up a friendship that had confused their superiors, but was reluctantly allowed, as it was not forbidden to talk to the Saarebas if you did not fear them too much to do so; and Beres-taar was already marked to be sent to Seheron eventually, so he would need courage dealing with mages.

Kost angled his head up at him. The red light of the sinking sun fell through a small window at the upper edge of the room, high above their heads and just big enough to let in the blossom-sweet air of summer.

“They tell of your heroic deeds all over the city, Kadan,” Kost said with joy bright in his voice. “I confess that, at first, what stuck with me most was that you had returned alive. That’s always the first thing I listen for. However, I have now caught enough of the stories to understand you won a great victory.”

“We fought our best as usual,” Beres-taar said, his hands covering Kost’s, knuckles brushing the heavy chains. “Yet, it seems to matter so little. One victory of ours is offset by another of the people of Seheron, and one by Tevinter. All this praise already tastes bitter when I know that I will return to the same bloody battlefield.”

There was no one else he would have spoken so openly to. Very few people stood up with good spirit to the truth of the situation that Beres-taar had lived for so many years and he did not want to worry them. Undue sorrow only sowed doubt.

“I know,” Kost said. “Perhaps the true victory is not meant to come in our lifetimes. I do not envy you your task.” His fingers curled gently around Beres-taar’s. “Still, you are the wall that stands between us and Tevinter. If not for you, the bloody battlefield could be this very city. I thank you and the other fighters for your courage.”

Beres-taar nodded his head. He knew these things – should know them. Still, they held more weight from Kost’s mouth. He gave a thin smile.

“If only I was made of better than such crumbling stones.”

Kost gave a soft chuckle and kissed him again, the thick threads that kept his mouth from opening fully pressing against Beres-taar’s lips.

“That’s your own perfectionism speaking. Remember, you were meant for this, Ben-Hassrath. Your sharp mind must direct and reinforce the blades of the antaam.”

To hear Kost call him by his true name, the thing he was, almost was as sweet as to hear him say Kadan. The world seemed right again here with him, slotted into its place as it was meant to be. Of course Beres-taar knew that what they did was not allowed or else they need not have hidden for it. To have this kind of severe attachment at all was strange to Qunari minds, considered volatile and not ideal, not to mention Kost being a mage. However, that custom he believed to be not wholly perfect. If Kost could give him everything that others gathered from Tamassrans and more, why should he avoid him?

“‘A plague must cause suffering for as long as it endures, earthquakes must shatter the land,’” Kost said, speaking against his shoulder.

“‘They are bound by their being. It is to be,’” Beres-taar finished, stroking his dark hair.

“Likewise, a war of the kind that is fought in Seheron, between people of great strength, has its setbacks and sacrifices. This is as these things go. If the Ariqun thinks you are doing good work there, then you must trust his directions,” Kost said, leaning back. A small smile appeared on his lips. “As much as I wish that you would stay here, spying only on the bahaar coming out of the jungle.”

Beres-taar chuckled. Bahaar reached barely to the knee of your ordinary qunari. “Their claws are quite sharp,” he joked, pressing his lips to the Saarebas’ neck. Kost took a deep breath.

Beres-taar backed Kost into the wall as he pushed his hand between them, reaching under his robes and breeches. Their encounters, few as they had been over the years, were always brief and without much preamble, fear of discovery amplifying the sound of every footstep, every voice coming through the walls of the Saarebas quarters. They had joined with each other only twice. A few scarce times, Beres-taar had taken Kost in his mouth; Kost could not return the favour, of course, and he’d professed this and the fact that their kisses could never be deepened were the only reasons he sometimes cursed the threads running through his lips. Mostly, however, they did not risk any position that could not be made to look inconspicuous in the span of a second or two.

Kost could not hug him with his arms chained before his body, but he could still touch Beres-taar’s cock as he pulled it out from his trousers. He nuzzled the side of his neck as his hand joined Beres-taar’s and though the edges of his mask pressed into Beres-taar’s grey flesh and the thick cords that held his lips together scraped over his skin, the touch had Beres-taar shivering.

“I missed you,” Kost whispered.

“My soul remains with you,” Beres-taar gave back.

“That is the source of all my strength,” Kost said.

It was over quickly. They had trained themselves not to tarry, but grasp hard and quickly and with purpose. Sometimes, when sleep had almost taken him, Beres-taar dreamed of laying Kost out on a bed instead. These fantasies were idle and reality provided him enough when Kost slumped against him, satisfied and smiling.

When they had straightened their clothes and looked decent again, Kost sat down on one of the stone benches that lined the edges of the room. “Tell me of you,” he said, as he always did, looking up at Beres-taar.

Their shoulders touched as they sat. They spoke of Seheron and its inhabitants and invaders, of the Saarebas barracks, the people they’d met, the people they’d lost, until Teron-te poked his head into the room and announced that the Saarebas had to group now to get back on the chain leash before they went to sleep. Though Beres-taar hated to let Kost go, he interrupted himself mid-sentence and gave a nod. Kost had explained to him long ago how important it was to them to sleep together so that in their time of lowered defences demons could not sneak into their heads through the door of dreams.

“The young one fears sleep,” he said now, as they left the room behind Teron-te. “Her exhaustion will eventually leave her just as vulnerable, though. I must see to it that her belief in the might of the karataam holds tonight.”

“If she cannot withstand, she must die before she endangers all of you,” Teron-te said tightly.

“Yes, but it is not proven yet. Give her a chance,” Kost answered.

Teron-te hesitated, but nodded his head. “I trust you to keep an eye on her.”

-

“What is the meaning of this? Am I to get new orders?”

Tiredness was still deep in his bones as he looked at Vahees, eyelids heavy, clothes pulled on hastily and sitting ill on him. Two fellow Ben-Hassrath of the regional forces had woken him before sunrise and escorted him through the grey morning back to the headquarters in which his superior waited for him seated behind the same desk where he had met him yesterday.

“No.” Vahees’ mouth was drawn into a tight line. He looked tired, too, but in a more fundamental way, drained and exhausted. “You have been called back for re-education.”

It occurred to Beres-taar that the two other Ben-Hassrath had never left the room. He glanced over his shoulder at them, back at Vahees.

“I see,” he said neutrally, though his heart had leapt into his throat. There was only one possibility why this was the case and if they had come for him, they must have already taken Kost. No one would risk letting a disobedient Saarebas go free a second longer than necessary. “May I ask why?”

“You don’t need me to tell you why. But if your question is how you were found out – someone with a steadier soul than you told us.”

Vahees nodded to the two Ben-Hassrath, who opened the door again, admitting Dahen into the room.

Beres-taar knew that it was Dahen’s duty to inform someone of such an infraction if he witnessed it, but as he stared at him, he could feel there was only one question written in his face: _We knew each other when we had barely learned to walk. Why did you not come to me first?_

Dahen had the good grace to at least hide guilt under the defiance in his expression.

“I knew it couldn’t be good, you and this Kost. It isn’t right to speak to Saarebas this way. So I followed, but I rounded the building until I found a window and climbed up to look into the quarters of Kost’s karataam.” His voice lowered to disgust. “I saw what you did.”

“I should not have trusted you when you said that Seheron had no influence on you,” Vahees said, shaking his head. “It was my mistake. Don’t worry, we will strengthen your will again.”

“But Kost is not a danger. There is no greater defender of the Qun than him. You should hear him talk of it!” Beres-taar burst out.

“The Qun as interpreted by a Saarebas? That’s madness, Beres-taar, and you know it. Only the priesthood can even think about conveying its meaning.”

“The Qun doesn’t state that it is forbidden to befriend-”

“I am doing you a favour, Beres-taar,” Vahees interrupted sharply. “Any other man would be killed. You could already be tainted by demons, but I choose to believe that you are a little stronger than that because of all your great deeds. Give me a hint that I am wrong and you die.”

For a moment, Beres-taar ground his teeth to keep in the insult sitting at the tip of his tongue.

“What happens to Kost?” he asked.

He knew. Of course he knew.

“What do you think?” Vahees asked impatiently. “You opened him to the spirits of lust and obviously he is wilful and dangerous. Who can say if he is not already possessed? To protect the rest of his karataam, he will be removed from them and executed.”

His greatest regret was for his lover, of course, but for a moment, Beres-taar’s thoughts flickered to the young woman with the circles under her eyes. He wondered if Kost had convinced her to sleep this night. He doubted she would survive the next without him, especially if Teron-te impressed it upon her that her only support had been a tainted monstrosity. She would die and who knew how many more of the ones whose peace of mind they had put on Kost’s shoulders? They trusted him with so many delinquent, almost fallen mages, but Beres-taar was supposed to be the influence that would push him over the edge? For all his trust in the Qun, that seemed entirely senseless and always had, or he wouldn’t have followed this path all these years.

“This isn’t right. We are both loyal men of the Qun.”

“I don’t even want to imagine what you think the Qun is at this point, having it garbled by that Saarebas,” Vahees muttered.

With a gesture, the two Ben-Hassrath stepped forward to strip his weapons and grab Beres-taar’s arms to drag him out.

-

The room they brought him to was on ground level. A barred window allowed a view outside. Beres-taar knew the plaza it opened onto well: it sat in the middle of the re-education complex, the Viddathlok. It was not the sort of sight which would give any prisoner hope and it was not designed to. People who were treated with qamek would often be placed in the middle of it so that the inhabitants of the surrounding cells would know what to expect if their own process of rehabilitation did not go as smoothly as the Ben-Hassrath wished.

And then, straight across the courtyard, northwards, were the rooms from which people did not return.

“Bring him out,” one of the Ben-Hassrath called. It was not to Beres-taar, but directed at the window.

Beres-taar lifted his eyes. Kost was almost shielded from his view by the bodies of the Arvaarad that pushed at his back and pulled at his chains. Kost had never walked with his head down, though leashed and put in a row of mages like oxen being brought to market. _My nature is not shameful as it was not my decision_, he would tell Beres-taar, _and I escape not its consequences_. Now, however, his shoulders were slumped and he stumbled between the men that led him.

They were going north, of course. To the slaughter.

“You liked him, did you not? Do you see what you have done to him now?”

For a moment, Beres-taar was quiet. Deliberating. Measuring the distances between the walls, to the still-open cell door blocked by his captors. A voice inside him told him that this was how it had to be, in the end. It had been hubris of them to think they knew better than Tamassrans and do forbidden things. If they died, the whole Qun would profit from it, grow healthier and purer.

Then he looked up at Kost again and, without hesitation, sprang backwards and punched one of the Ben-Hassrath in the face while he ripped a knife from his belt. As he held the other at a distance with the blade in his face, he delivered two quick kicks to his first target’s stomach and groin, leaving him doubled over. Then, he tore the blade around, ramming the blunt end of the hilt in the other Ben-Hassrath’s nose. Blood gushed down his face as he gave a hoarse cry.

Beres-taar did not wait for them to get up again or for other guards to grow aware, but barrelled down the corridor and kicked the door to the courtyard open.

Outside, the Arvaarad had obviously heard the commotion, standing already turned to face him. Beres-taar brandished the stolen blade. He did not wish to kill his fellow qunari, but they had threatened Kost and that was the only thought in Beres-taar’s mind right now.

He was still deliberating how to take them on when suddenly, Kost gave one of the Arvaarad a shove in the back and with a quick grab forward took something from his hand. The Arvaarad shouted, but the sound was swallowed by the sudden rush of air being displaced as a wall of jagged ice sprang up between Kost and the Arvaarad, its razor-sharp edges ripping through the heavy iron chains that bound Kost to his captors.

As the Arvaarad sprang away from the magic in frightened confusion, Beres-taar dodged around the wall, where Kost stood, frozen as if he had hexed himself, too. His wrists and neck showed deep, bloody marks where the shackles had dug into his flesh before the chains had been ripped apart.

The device that could dampen his magic and which he had stolen was useless if he was not properly bound, but Beres-taar smacked it out of his grip, anyway, cracking it under the heel of his boot before he grabbed Kost by the arm and dragged him towards the gate. Finally, Kost’s feet started moving again. Guards in the door stood shoulder to shoulder.

“Go,” Kost gasped. “Go, do not stop!”

In the same moment, a blue shimmering aura draped over Beres-taar and him. He’d seen the like before: Tevinter mages used it to protect themselves, impervious to any damage as long as it wasn’t spent. Theirs was like a second armour, perfectly smooth, but Kost had rarely done magic before and managed only a shivering mantle for them. It would have to be enough.

Heedless of their blades, Beres-taar rammed into the wall of soldiers with his shoulder first, breaking a way through for them. Their swords glanced off the magical barrier, as did the arrows that whizzed towards their heads.

“There’s ways around the city… it’s where the Arvaarad lead the karataam when we are out so that our presence will not disturb the others,” Kost said behind him, his quiet voice almost lost to the wind.

“Lead on! We need to get to the haven.”

Kost took a sharp left turn into a small alleyway. Beres-taar fell back, just to make sure that whatever came at them from behind would hit him first. The barrier was running out and he would not risk Kost getting hurt. 

With how little time Beres-taar had spent in Qunandar in the last two decades, he could not have found a safe route through the city, but Kost had not left the place in all his life and, despite his extremely limited range when exploring it, he paced the narrow backstreets with the ease of one who knew each corner. Slowly, the sound of their pursuers’ steps faded away behind them. When they turned a bend and the haven suddenly opened up in front of them, Beres-taar almost stood still in surprise, but quickly caught himself.

“You must go through the treeline south – there, where the shrubbery grows up to the wall and then to the beach. I will pick you up in a boat,” he commanded the Saarebas.

Kost nodded his head as much as he could with the thick iron weight around it. Beres-taar watched him as he vanished between the trees, then took a deep breath and stepped out into the open sun. 

He called upon every bit of his training to appear unconcerned and confident as he walked across the teeming haven. Their pursuers couldn’t have reached here yet, he was fairly certain. For now, a few precious minutes more, he was still a respected leader of the Ben-Hassrath. It was all he needed to get out of here if he played his cards right. One of the first lesson a good spy learned was that if hiding was not an option, the less you were supposed to be somewhere and do something, the more you needed to appear as if your presence and action were routine and expected.

He headed straight for a cluster of boats which the fisherwomen used, small and sturdy, but easy enough to handle on your own, and in passing cut one of the ropes with which they were tied to wooden posts. By the time the first person called out to him in surprise, he’d pushed off the pier and was heading south.

It was his luck that they had decided to fetch him early in the morning, for at this time the haven was busy. Though a few people had grown aware of him when he left, as he was obviously not one of the women who handled the fishing, they could not push through the crowd quick enough to follow. It allowed him to steer close to the banks until he saw Kost, cowering in the shadow of broad-leaved bushes. The very sight of him, should he have been spotted, would have caused a panic.

Beres-taar pulled him up into the boat and turned away from land, from Qunandar. The wind favoured them, billowing the sail with a stiff breeze, and so he only had to set course to let them drift towards the open sea. As they did, the sound of the squalls on the waves and the gulls in the air replaced the clamour of the port. They were alone now – all the way alone, the structures of the Qun that had raised them and held them suddenly collapsed. Beres-taar had never in a thousand years believed that he could become Tal-Vashoth for any argument in the world. In the end, he’d made his decision in a matter of seconds and it had seemed wholly unavoidable. Still, the enormity of what he’d done only now crowded upon his mind.

“Beres-taar...”

He turned away from the horizon to look at Kost, who was staring up at him. His hands were shaking against the iron of the shackles. In all the years he had known him, he’d never seen him look so frightened.

“I’m miles from my karataam, my Arvaarad. How can I keep myself from the demons? I do not want to become a danger to you.”

“Kadan, of every Saarebas I have ever met, there is none I trust to withstand the fight as much as I do you,” Beres-taar said, inching closer towards him.

“But there is a reason they keep us in groups and guarded.”

“And they don’t do the same in Tevinter yet their people mostly walk free of demons.”

As he spoke, Beres-taar realised that he believed what he said. The way the Qun kept their mages was the safest for them and others, but if you spent so many years outside of Par Vollen, it was hard to deny that you were constantly seeing people in roles and positions that should have made them unhappy who nevertheless seemed perfectly fine with the way they carried their burden. The Qun presented itself as the only path and Beres-taar thought it was the greatest, but there was no denying there were others.

He just had to show Kost this truth, though he was ill-equipped to do so, as all his trust had always been placed in the Qun. Kost, however, did not seem to be listening at all. “Perhaps I should... the weight of these chains would be enough to pull me to the bottom of the sea,” he murmured.

“We leave together or we do not leave,” Beres-taar said, immediately. “If you die, I will turn around and face the Ben-Hassrath.”

This finally got his attention. Kost opened his mouth, closed it again, gave a sigh that shook his body. “My life is not worth much, but I could never risk yours, Kadan. But what if I do it by remaining at your side?”

“I will be your Arvaraad.” Reaching forward, Beres-taar grabbed one of the broken chains. “I promise that if you are possessed, I will put you to the blade. I will not allow anyone to get hurt by you, as I know it would pain you more than forfeiting your life. However, I believe that you will not stray.”

Kost wrapped his hands around Beres-taar’s forearm, holding on. Slowly, his breathing steadied as he kept his eyes locked on his. Finally, he nodded his head.

“Where are we going?” he asked, after a moment. “I have never left Qunandar.”

“We will sail past Seheron into Anderfels,” Beres-taar answered. He’d made the plan when he stepped on the boat. It was the only one that made sense. Tevinter was obviously out of the question and in Seheron and Rivain, where Qunari presence was strong, they would be caught in days. All other lands were beyond their reach. “I know a few of the smaller, uncharted islands where we can find food and water on the way.”

“What is Anderfels like?”

“Blighted land, too often overrun by darkspawn,” Beres-taar said, looking to the horizon again. “Hard people live there, sparse and spread out into small villages. We can hide among them. Even I have only ever seen its few ports. Our spies do not range into the steppes and mountains and the Chantry has an iron grip on the lands that stifles all the seeds of the Qun. Finding us there would be more trouble than we are worth.”

Kost’s grip grew a little firmer.

“I go with you, Kadan.”

\---

“Beres-taar…”

Kost was never loud. Even after Beres-taar had cut the cords holding his lips together, knowing both that the practice elicited horror from Bas and that it would identify Kost as a deserter at a glance, a life of keeping his mouth mostly closed had formed Kost’s habits. He didn’t part his lips properly, neither to scream nor even to make eating easier, but only when Beres-taar pressed his mouth down on his, which he did now, spending himself inside Kost’s body that was writhing so beautifully under him.

As they caught their breath, Beres-taar rested his weight against Kost, still inside him. They were always slow to part. Even after six months, the reality that they did not need to look over their shoulders, that no one would be surprised or disturbed to find them together, that their door was not allowed to be opened at any time because they were in their own house still had not truly sunk in. They grasped at every moment together, feeling like they stole them.

As Kost’s hands, free of the weight of shackles, gently caressed his back, Beres-taar glanced out of the window. It was a grey morning, as most where here at the foot of the Wandering Hills. Outside, a gnarled tree stood, branches covered in pale leaves reaching towards the sky. The hut had been abandoned when they came into the village, the previous owner dead after a fall on one of the narrow, treacherous mountain paths, which left him as prey to the darkspawn and other blighted creatures that still lingered there.

“We should rise,” Kost said and kissed Beres-taar.

Beres-taar nodded his head, slowly pulling out of him as he watched Kost’s face. He had handsome features, high, prominent cheekbones and a strong brow. In all the years they had known each other and had followed the Qun, Beres-taar had never seen him without a mask covering everything but his eyes, mouth, and jaw.

They washed and pulled on their clothes. Kost wore a roughspun linen tunic over trousers of the same material and Beres-taar piecemeal leather armour. They parted before the doorway with Kost lingering a little before he started on his way. The wide open land of the Wandering Hills still intimidated him at times, he had confessed, so different from the barracks and narrow paths of Qunandar, but he pushed on with the strength Beres-taar had always known him to possess. As he turned away from him, Beres-taar already heard a voice: “Berry, Kost! Good morning!”

He raised his hand in greeting to the young woman who had called out as she led her goats past them up a hill. His name had deteriorated around here, but Beres-taar did not try to keep it from happening. Whatever they called him, they still allowed him to be what he had always enjoyed being: a shield. Out here, outside the Qun, words held no such great power, anyway. You did not need to call someone what they were, you only called them what they listened to. It was an odd freedom.

The nameless village, really a wide-stretched collections of farms and hovels with a small market vaguely in the middle, was populated by a collection of Anders from the steppes and Orth from the mountains. It had no mayor and not even the Grey Wardens, who more or less ruled rural Anderfels, came here often. It was for that reason, Beres-taar was sure, that Edna, the village eldest, had allowed Kost and him to stay. Strangers they might be, and even in Anders some people knew how to read what the dotted scars around Kost’s mouth spelled out, but Beres-taar could handle a blade and in a region where rain was often precious and the next physician many leagues away, a Saarebas was not an entirely unwelcome sight, either.

During the day and sometimes by night when he’d seen shadows in the mountains, Beres-taar travelled along the borders of the farmlands and leys, making sure that the peasants and shepherds were save. They waved to him as he passed, stopped him for small chats, and their dogs came running for pets now. Sometimes, Beres-taar thought of the cowering people of Seheron who had regarded him with equal fear and fury and sought something like it in the faces of his new neighbours, but found only vague distrust even in the most hostile ones. Kost, who had spent the many years in captivity reading what he was allowed, knew enough of herbs to make himself useful, and had figured out some spells that mended flesh and bones. He tended to humans and animals alike, summoned water for the fields when the rain would not come, and kept a small garden and a few chickens that belonged to them now. Neither of them did what their were supposed to by birth and nurture, but neither of them were precisely unhappy, though the thought of enjoying themselves while all their life-long tasks given to them under the Qun were left forever undone seemed precarious still. Beres-taar knew not what to make of all this, but he could say that he did not regret his flight.

That day, Kost and him met again as the sun sank behind the peaks of the mountains. Kost carried a wicker basket filled with bread. The warm smell wafted up to Beres-taar, making his mouth water.

“Agnes’ boy broke his ankle. I took a look at it. He should be fine in a couple of days.”

“You have gotten quite good at this sort of magic.”

Carefully, Kost nodded his head. “I find it calming. It draws on no troubling energies. The rain spells are the same. I can’t make them strong enough to cause a flood or tear down a house. I wouldn’t want to.” He hesitated. “It’s just strange sometimes, you know? Everyone knows I’m Saarebas, but they seem fine pretending not to notice. If they turn their back to me when I water their fields and heal their herds, that’s all they need to do to feel like they don’t have to tell any wandering priest or Templar.”

“They deal with this sort of vagueness very well,” Beres-taar said with a thoughtful nod. “It still baffles me, I admit.”

“And me.”

But for all the confusion and anguish the change had brought, Beres-taar now got to walk up to his home with Kost, whom the villagers had come to call his husband. They had agreed not to correct them, as the people of Anders were pious folk and liked to think the Chantry had given its blessing to all that happened around them, but perhaps in secret they were both fond of toying with the idea behind the assumption, too. No one here was ever surprised at their continuing affection just for each other and they talked of them as a pair, two people inextricably linked. This, Beres-taar liked.

“Did Agnes ask about children again?”

Kost chuckled. “Of course she did. She still thinks we should go over to Fellberg and pick a couple from the orphanage.” Shaking his head, he looked up at Beres-taar. “I wonder if we will ever be that much like the Bas.”

“I’d have told you no when we arrived here,” Beres-taar said.

“So would I have.”

Qunari did not have families. Neither of them was a Tamassran, had the requisite skill to a raise a child. But then, under the Qun, Beres-taar was not a guardsman and Kost not a healer or farmer. They were not Qunari anymore. As he looked at Kost’s thoughtful expression, Beres-taar knew that he was thinking the same thing.

“I want to fix the roof before supper. It’s leaking again,” Beres-taar said, as they stood before the door of their home.

“I’ll see to the chickens, then, and bring you the thatch.”

Beres-taar kissed Kost on the mouth, felt the old scars against his lips and then leaned their foreheads together, a small gesture of affection that, with the mask in the way, he’d never been able to perform before and had become rapidly fond of.

“Do you want to go down to the tavern later?” Kost asked.

After so many years, Beres-taar knew Kost’s voice well enough that he could read the inflection, the silent request. Once more, they were in agreement. They had spent so many years only meeting under the eyes of others that they still were too desperate for each other’s sole company.

“Maybe tomorrow. Let’s spend the night in.”


End file.
